Onwards and Upwards
by Kouri Arashi
Summary: A series of one-shot fics following 'Coming Undone'. The pack is coming together. (And also I've created a monster AU. Please send help.)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So what's the first thing that needs to happen now that Papa Stilinski knows...? Melissa McCall, you're up!_

_Coming out simultaneously with this will be the "let's get Isaac into the pack!" fic. As soon as it has a title. To be followed by Erica. And probably more stuff because HELP ME I CAN'T STOP WRITING TEEN WOLF FIC._

_Uh, sort of a trigger warning for rape analogies when it comes to being turned into a werewolf though. Sorry about that. Also, my girlfriend has ADD, so Stiles in this chapter is her fault._

* * *

Scott's already rethinking his decision not to have Stiles as emotional backup as he sets his foot on the edge of his house's large lawn and smells the hamburgers that she's making. Normally, if he set his mind to filtering out the ambient noise of what's happening around him, he can hear her heartbeat and find it comforting. Today, he can barely hear anything over the thudding of his own heart due to his nerves.

He tries to tell himself that he's faced down Peter, Derek, Chris and Kate Argent, he's been shot repeatedly, he can do this. This should be easy in comparison. He takes a deep breath, crosses the lawn, and goes inside.

"Oh hey!" Melissa shouts from the kitchen. "How was lacrosse practice?"

Scott heads toward her, a little taken off guard, and then tells himself he's being stupid. Just because he's braced for the talk of the century doesn't mean his mother is expecting anything weird. "Not too bad. Jackson's being a dou . . . doofus," he says, catching his bad language at the last minute.

Melissa is clearly not fooled, and arches an eyebrow at him, but lets it go. "How's Stiles doing?"

"He's doing good." Scott winces. "Well. He's doing well." He can just hear Allison correcting him in his head.

A little smirk crosses Melissa's face. "You may pass high school yet," she says, and turns back to the hamburgers she's grilling on their tiny George Foreman. "You hungry? 'Cause these will be ready pretty soon."

"Absolutely." He's a growing werewolf, after all. He sniffs a little. If he's going to out himself, he figures he might as well not have his dinner horrifically overcooked to 'well done'. "Actually, I think I'll just snag mine now," he adds, swooping in. The rarer side of medium is good.

Melissa smacks his knuckles with a fork. "Do I even need to tell you about how much e. coli is in this stuff?"

"Not enough to kill me," Scott says, undeterred. His own burger rescued, although he leaves his mother's cooking, he turns to her with a look that's an odd combination of nervous, sheepish, and serious, a look that only Scott can manage. "But . . . about that. I, uh . . . I wanted to talk to you. Like _really_ talk to you."

She blinks at him. "Really?"

Scott nods. "Really."

"Hallelujah!" She unplugs the grill and steers Scott into a chair, leaving the food on the counter. "Talk," she says, sitting across from him.

Scott eyes the burgers. "I'm not letting you cook those more later under the guise of warming them up," he says, but sits.

"Then you'll eat them cold, bucko. Talk."

Scott can live with that. "Well, see, I'm . . . no, Stiles . . ." He bites his lip. "No. So, the thing is . . ." His fingers tap at the table. "Shit, Mom, I'm awful at this! Everything has been so messed up and there have been tons of secrets and lies, and it's sucked and I don't even know where to start."

She reaches over the table to grip his hands. "Start at the beginning."

"Right. The beginning." He calms down a little. She's his mom. It'll be okay. "So remember back when that body was found in the woods? Laura's body?" he adds, automatically referring to her by name because her memory is treated with respect in their pack.

Melissa nods, looking a little confused to have this as a starting place. "Yeah, I remember that."

"Okay, so, Stiles and I did something really stupid."

"Oh, Lord," Melissa says. "You went out to look for the body. That's it; I am never working night shift again . . ."

Scott huffs out a laugh. Nights weren't so much of a problem anymore. "Yeah, we did, and it was fine in the beginning. We were just, you know, doing something stupid. Then Stiles' dad caught us. Or caught Stiles, but, he knew I was there, you know? Because he's not an idiot. Anyway, we got split up and then I . . ." He has to stop and take a deep breath because this is still difficult. Peter had still done something to him against his will, and no matter how good things are now, it's not a fond memory. "So I got knocked down and bitten by an animal. Or what I thought was an animal. A wolf. Which there aren't any in California. Or at least, not any normal ones."

"Okay . . ." Melissa says, now well and truly baffled about where this story is going.

"And I thought it was no big deal. Maybe I stumbled too close to the den. It's not like it's the first time I've been bitten by an animal. So I just cleaned it up and moved on. But . . . then I was suddenly good at lacrosse. Like, Jackson level of good. And I could _breathe_, and my hearing and sense of smell were out of this world and it was _crazy_."

"It . . . sounds crazy, all right."

Scott charged ahead for another minute. "And it all would have been fine, awesome, or so I thought, except Peter wanted . . ." He trails off. "You don't believe me." He nods. "Okay."

"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but I'm still not even sure what you're trying to _tell_ me and I don't see what this has to do with anything that's been going on, in addition to how insane it all sounds. Like you got bitten by a radioactive spider and now you have superpowers."

"I'm trying to tell you about how I got all tangled up in this mess with two, _two_ psychotic murderers, and how everything is different now, and there's a, a family, a _pack_, and things are finally . . ." He stops because he's babbling again. He pulls one hand free from his mother's hold, leaving the other where it is. "Tell me you won't freak out."

"I'm already pretty freaked out, but I'll try to stay calm," Melissa says.

Scott holds his hand up and shifts enough to show claws.

Melissa stares, fascinated, watching the claws come out. "That's . . . how did you . . ." She can't seem to finish the question.

"I'm a werewolf, mom."

Melissa shakes his head. "You, you, do you think this is _funny_? Do, do you think that – "

"Mom! Mom, I've got _claws_." He gestures with that hand, keeping it a safe distance from his mother. "No, I don't think it's funny. Do you need to see the teeth? The pointed ears, the fur? If you want to see a hundred and forty-some-odd pound wolf sitting in your kitchen, I can do that for you."

"No! No, I don't want to see that, who would want to see that?" Melissa pushes back from the table. "Jesus. I need a drink. Only my son would manage to, to get turned into a werewolf!"

Scott slams back from the table like his mother had just slapped him. "Manage to?! You . . . you make it sound like I just let it happen and now I'm some sort of . . . I didn't ask for this! Peter did this to me! He _attacked_ me and _did_ this to me without my permission! Just like he did to Lydia! But because I wasn't bleeding everywhere in a pretty dress, it's suddenly something I just let happen?"

"Oh . . . oh, honey," Melissa says, nearly choking the words out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way, I just . . . this is kind of a lot to take in."

Scott nods a little, not sure if he's accepting her apology or agreeing with her or just indicating that he has physically heard what she said. He wants a hug, because that's the sort of comfort he's used to, now that the idea of pack is something good for him. But he won't ask for one, so he just hugs his arms over his stomach and says nothing.

Melissa is not inobservant, however, and after a moment she walks over and wraps her arms around her son, squeezing him tightly. "It's going to be okay, Scott. Whatever . . . whatever's going on, whatever you need, we'll get it for you. Okay? I promise. It's going to be okay."

He nods against her shoulder and lets himself be hugged for a minute, just soaking it in, before hugging back. "It's not bad now. Peter's gone. Kate's gone." There might have been a sniffle. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"You don't need to be sorry for that." Melissa rubs his back. "I was kind of . . . I just shouldn't have said that. Okay?" She steers him back towards his chair. "Now start at the beginning . . . again . . . and stop dancing around the werewolf thing."

He sits, and starts over. He tells her the whole story this time. It's a bit disjointed, because he isn't a very good storyteller, and there's a lot of emotional flailing, but he tells it. And this time he uses everyone's names all the way through, which makes him swallow hard and hiccup here and there because it takes the cushion away. The body can no longer be anonymous. She's truly Laura Hale, Derek's sister, his _alpha_, and now Scott knows what that really means and how hard the loss of a loved alpha could hit, let alone sister and only family. 'The wolf' is Peter from beginning to end, and that makes him curl in on himself, because 'the wolf' is now a person and stripped of all innocence of action. He doesn't dare look at his mother when talking about the times he was hurt or shot, either, or the times that he misjudged Derek so badly. But he does tell her everything.

Melissa sits there the whole time and keeps her jaw firmly clenched when her stomach wants to leap into her throat. She murmurs a sympathetic comment here and there, and tries to keep everything straight when Scott jumps around. She sits across the table and holds his hands, and makes sure not to express incredulity at anything, even the least believable parts, because she's sure he's telling the truth. He's her son, and she knows him, and he would never make up a story like this.

"Well," she says, when it's clear that he's brought her up to date, "you know, this is going to sound crazy, but . . . this is actually a huge relief to me. Werewolf pack and all."

Scott looks up at her cautiously. "Uh, it is? Because . . . that's not what I expected. And that's even taking into account my new definition of crazy."

Melissa lets out a sigh, a release of tension that brings her almost to the point of tears. "My God, Scott, I was so _worried_ about you. I thought you were, were on drugs, or mixed up in a gang, or, or, developing a mental illness like schizophrenia. I didn't know _what_ to think. And it turns out all that time you were just . . . looking out for your friends. Trying to do the right thing. Being _Scott_." Now she is crying a little. "That is _such_ a Goddamn relief."

This time it's Scott who moves around the table and does the hugging. "I didn't mean to worry you. I really didn't. I thought, _we_ thought, that if we kept you and Mr. Stilinski out of it, you would worry less, and be in less danger."

She hugs him tightly and presses his cheek against his hair. "Yes, well," she says, "sometimes you aren't very bright, Scott. You know?"

Scott gives an amused huff. "Stiles, Derek, and Lydia don't let me forget. Allison respects my fragile ego."

"Good for her." Melissa gives him another squeeze. "Also: you're grounded."

"What for? Exactly?"

"Lying to me. And don't say you didn't lie to me, bucko! Omission is just as bad, if not worse, and there have to have been at least a few times in there when you just flat out lied to my face." She gives him a gentle whap upside the head. "So. You are grounded, mister. No, uhm, no TV for a week. A month! No TV for a month."

"I wasn't going to argue!" Scott protests. "I just wanted to know what it was in that entire disaster that I was grounded for." There was a pause, and then somewhat sheepishly, "Does grounded mean I can't go to Stiles' house? Please don't do that. Everything else, okay, but everyone goes over there."

Melissa folds her arms over her chest and says, "Well, I guess your pack will just have to come here, now won't they."

Scott nods, invested in making his mother happy. "Uh . . . even overnight? Sometimes . . . we do that." Sometimes any one of them could use a packmate to sleep next to.

"Wolf slumber parties?" Melissa seems amused by this concept.

"Sort of?"

Melissa narrows her eyes. "Are you hiding things again, or just being evasive by accident?"

"Both? Neither?" He flaps a hand at her while trying to think before speaking. "It's not for fun. We're a new pack, so I think it makes us want to stick close to each other. And," he stops here, trying to think of a way to explain that they all sort of have the screaming meemies sometimes (except Derek, who has angry hysterics) without spilling other people's secrets. "This was all such a mess for some of us, it's better to have someone nearby at night."

"Uh huh." Melissa smiles suddenly. "So you sleep close to each other for comfort and you, being a guy, didn't want to have to say that to your mother?"

"Maybe." Scott grins. "That and sometimes Derek forgets he should think about pants."

Melissa folds her hands under her chin and says, "If you weren't so head over heels for Allison, that comment would make me suspicious. Actually it does, but sort of in a different way. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but, well – do Derek and Stiles have, you know, a thing?"

Scott's eyebrows came down as he thought about that question and how to answer. It isn't a secret, whatever 'it' is, but it's not exactly easy to explain. "Sort of. Yes." He nods firmly, because he's started thinking about how they share the pack, and that lets him start thinking like a wolf, and the way they smell when they're together. Content. Stiles is less stressed and Derek is closer to happy. The way gravity pulls them together, the way it had pulled him towards Allison. But they never have the scent of lust, or sex; at least, Stiles never has it near Derek. It shows up near pretty girls often enough. "Yeah, they do. But uh, Stiles is straight, if that's what you were asking. Though he's finally over Lydia! And Derek is sort of a second alpha, since Stiles isn't actually a wolf, and Derek knows a lot since he was born as one."

"So they're more like partners than boyfriends," Melissa says, wanting to make sure she has this straight.

"Maybe? How do you mean 'partners'?"

"Well . . ." Melissa thinks it over. "I guess in this circumstance, it would mean almost like parents. The two of them run everything together. They're friends, but more than friends, but not boyfriends."

"Kinda, yeah," Scott says, although he's noticed that Stiles isn't really looking around anymore. At least, nothing beyond a general appreciation of the scenery.

Seeing his hesitation, Melissa smiles a little and says, "Maybe you need to speak 'wolf' before you can understand it."

"That could be it." In a moment of blind honesty, because this was his mother here, he adds, "Or it could be because we're all pretty screwed up at this point."

She shakes her head at him and says, "Eat your dinner."

Scott nods and stands, and the first thing he does is plug the grill back in for his mother. Then he starts assembling a sandwich for himself. "So . . . how long am I grounded for?"

Melissa narrows her eyes at him. "Why don't you tell me how long you think would be appropriate?"

Scott cringes. Every teenager on the planet knows that there is no correct answer to that question. "I dunno. Some of this was self-punishing. I mean, I got shot and stuff."

Melissa folds her arms over her chest and gives him a look with raised eyebrows.

Realizing that this was absolutely the wrong thing to say, Scott verbally scrambles to fix his mistake. "But it's okay! It didn't even leave a mark!" Then he thinks of the slowly fading scar from the wolfsbane bullet to the belly. "Or it won't in the end. Oh God, I'm making it worse."

"Yes, yes you are," Melissa says. "If we're going to bring that into it, I'd be tempted to ground you twice as long for each time you got hurt."

"It was only twice." Scott winces. "I guess grounding me for as long as all this was going on would be fair."

"Oh, Lord," Melissa says. "Stiles would eat me out of house and home if he had to come over here every night because you were grounded for, what, three months?" She takes a deep breath and taps her fingers on the table, watching Scott devour his hamburger, because no matter what else is going on, he's still a growing boy. "Okay. You are grounded from TV for a month, and you're grounded from your phone and from going out for a week."

"Only a week?" Scott leans over the table to give her a surprised hug.

"Because you tried to do what you thought was best," she says, "and because you didn't ask for any of this. Yes. Only a week."

"Okay." Scott pulls his phone out, but pauses as he's about to hand it over. "Can I text everyone first, to let them know to come here tonight?"

Melissa considers. "You may text Stiles," she says. "He can tell everyone else."

Scott nods, not about to argue, and gets with the texting. 'Grounded and lost phone privileges for a week. Mom says the pack can come over. Gotta go.'

Melissa lets him hang onto the phone until Stiles replies, which he does a minute later with, 'I'll let everyone know the party's at the McCall house tonite!"

Scott taps out a quick, 'No party! Grounded!' and hands the phone over to his mother. "It's not my fault," he tells her.

She looks at the screen and lets out a snort of laughter. "Don't worry, Scott; I don't hold you responsible for Stiles."

"Thank God."

They go back to eating their dinner, and less than twenty minutes later, Stiles shows up with Lydia in tow. "Hi, Ms. McCall!" he says, bouncing into the house with his usual lack of what might be considered courtesy. Lydia is just rolling her eyes as she follows him inside. Stiles looks at Scott and says, "I can't believe you actually told her," then holds his hand out for a fist bump.

Scott knocks their fists together but gives Stiles a look like he's the slow one. "Dude, you kinda told me to. If I hadn't, you and your dad were going to make me. I could tell." He leans around Stiles to give Lydia a smile in greeting.

"And I totally expected we would have to do that," Stiles says with a nod. "Hey, hamburgers? Awesome." He commences stuffing his face.

Lydia rolls her eyes and says, politely, "Thank you for having us, Ms. McCall."

Scott looked over at Lydia and asks, "Have you eaten? I can make more burgers. And there's one left that hasn't been cooked to death." He's a little nervous, shifting slightly. "Is Allison coming?" He assumes that Derek is, but Derek will get there in his own time, because Derek can be a jerk like that.

"She said she'll be over as soon as she's done with her homework," Stiles says with his mouth full. "And yeah, we ate at my place," he adds, not seeming to realize how inconsistent that statement is with the fact that he's already inhaled half a hamburger and is clearly thinking about putting together a second one.

Scott gives his mom an apologetic smile and looks in the fridge for other food. "Does anyone want anything to drink? By 'anyone' I mean 'Lydia'," he adds. Stiles is on his own.

"Just water," Lydia says, as Stiles shoulders Scott aside to reach for a can of Coke and a Tupperware of mystery leftovers. "Stiles, did you take your Adderall today?"

"Nah, I slept too late," Stiles says, opening the Tupperware and giving it a sniff. "That obvious?" he adds, sticking it in the microwave to reheat.

"Dude, you are eating _all_ the things," Scott says, and reaches for his phone to ask Derek to bring cookies, or chips, or the snack aisle of a grocery store. He's seen Stiles get like this before after a long spell of high-dose Adderall, when he finally eases off of it long enough to realize he hasn't eaten in a week. Then he remembers that he doesn't have his phone. He sighs and reminds himself that it's his own fault. "Can one of you ask Derek or Allison to pick up something to snack on, and some caffeine, on their way here? I'll pay them back," he adds, figuring that he shouldn't make his mother pay for all the food.

"Oh! I will!" Stiles whips out his phone and starts texting. "I want, uhm, I want those Little Debbie snack cakes and microwave burritos and, hm, and waffles. And . . . oranges. Yeah, definitely oranges."

Lydia gives Scott a somewhat skeptical look. "Caffeine? For him?"

"And a twelve pack of Mountain Dew," Scott reminds Stiles, who's still texting away. "Oh my God, Stiles, drink the Coke." After that, he turns and blinks at Lydia for a few moments. He's become used to her knowing pretty much everything. Then he shrugs and scoots a little closer to her, closer than the social norm although they both seem comfortable with it. "ADD, which is what Stiles has, and ADHD, are an understimulation of the central nervous system. Not overstimulation, the way a lot of people assume. That's why people with it bounce and fidget and jitter, and their minds are everywhere at once. They're trying to make up the difference." He shrugs a little. "Most ADD meds are a form of amphetamines. Stimulants actually make people with ADD calmer. So if Stiles is ever without his psych meds, just ply him with caffeine."

"See, Scott, I told you it would be a party," Stiles says, smirking at him as he takes the Tupperware out of the microwave and sticks his face into it.

"You're lucky my mother is forgiving," Scott says, shooting her a nervous glance before peering in the Tupperware to try to figure out what it is.

"Actually, I'm rather enjoying this," Melissa says, smiling at him. "It's good to see you and Stiles back to normal."

Stiles' phone buzzes and he says, "Okay, Allison's bringing the food. She'll be here in about half an hour." To Melissa, he says, "Derek will show up late. Because he's a creature of the night," he adds, in an outrageous Bela Lugosi accent.

Scott mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Just as long as he uses the door."

They manage to pry Stiles out of the kitchen long enough to sit down with a game of Scrabble, since Scott can't watch TV and Melissa has decided that video games count as they are played on the TV. ("No computer games, either," she says, which will obviously need to be on the honor system as he needs the computer for school.) Scott is half-heartedly making words like 'ball' and 'cat' because he doesn't really care, while Lydia and Stiles make words like 'placebo' and 'admiral' for the extra 'used all the letters' bonus. Melissa watches this game in amusement and occasionally gives Scott a hint.

Not long after that, the doorbell rings and Scott finds Allison on the other side with one of her smiles, several grocery bags, and two twelve packs of soda. "Hi," she says. "I got everything Stiles asked for and then some normal things for the rest of us."

Scott beams and hugs her close, inhaling her scent and kissing her cheek. "Thanks." He let her into the house and grabs the soda packs from the porch. "We're playing Scrabble. I've been grounded from TV," he explains, as they make their way to the kitchen.

"Scrabble? With Stiles and Lydia?" Allison lets out one of her warm laughs. "You couldn't talk them into something like 'Chutes and Ladders'?"

"I was hoping for something in between like Monopoly, but I was outvoted. And then Stiles started putting down words like 'decimate'." He gives a put-upon sigh. "Besides, Chutes and Ladders? And to think that earlier I was telling my mother that you're respectful of my fragile ego."

Allison gives him a rather wicked smile and says, "Maybe we could find a better game for just the two of us . . ."

"Oh hey guys is that Mountain Dew? Did you get my Little Debbies?" Stiles zooms into the kitchen, grabs one of the grocery bags and a twelve-pack of soda right out of Scott's hands. "You'd better get back in here, Scott, it's your turn and your mom might get suspicious if you take much longer to say hello," he adds, then zooms back into the living room.

"I think that's a no," Scott says, with a laugh. "Do you still have all your fingers? And thanks for bringing this stuff, by the way." He puts the pack of Sprite on the table and gets one for himself.

"No problem." She gives him another kiss. "And my fingers are fine. Should we go say hi to your mother and team up at Scrabble?"

"You mean, should I let you save me? Yes, yes we should." He curls his hand around hers and they head into the living room.

Stiles is already elbow-deep in a bag of Cheetos, and has the open pack of Mountain Dew next to him. "I took your turn for you," he says, his mouth full. "You got thirty-six points. You're welcome."

Allison just smiles slightly and says, "Hi, Ms. McCall. Thanks for letting Scott have us over."

"I didn't want to ruin what he seemed to think was a working system," Melissa says, watching in amusement as Scott nearly loses his hand at the wrist while snagging some Cheetohs from the bag before returning it to Stiles.

Lydia makes a 'tsk' noise at Stiles and sets to work peeling one of the oranges. Allison just laughs and sits down next to Scott, curling her legs underneath herself and linking a hand through his arm. Stiles leans over to greet her properly, touching his cheek to hers in what seems to Melissa to be a strange parody of an animal greeting. He does this completely without any sense of shame or impropriety. Scott's eyes skip up to his mother to see her reaction to the normal pack greeting. Her eyebrows are raised slightly, but then she flips another page of her magazine.

Another little knot of tension that Scott hasn't realized was there melts away. Stiles greeting Allison like that in front of his mother gave all of them permission to act 'normally', and his mother's basic non-reaction to it swept away even more worry. He reaches out and nudges Lydia, no longer bothering to keep a normal distance. "Watch it. Stiles might take your fingers off to get to that orange."

Lydia gives him an arch look and says, "I'm aware. It's not for me. I was afraid he would try to eat it whole." She pulls apart the orange and holds a slice of it out to Stiles, who drops his bag of Cheetohs and grabs it.

"Must be vitamin C deficient," he says, as Lydia feeds him another slice.

Scott shrugs. "Maybe. Vitamins usually aren't an issue, with what you feed your dad. Have you weighed yourself lately? Maybe you just need food."

"Obviously I need food," Stiles says, accepting another orange slice. Melissa is watching this with some veiled interest. She doesn't think she's ever heard Scott take such a, well, mothering tone with Stiles before. And Stiles has certainly never accepted it before. "I just apparently really want oranges. Or maybe I just really want Lydia to feed me, right?" he asks, grinning at her. She just rolls her eyes at him.

Scott lets out a snort of laughter. "You've wanted that for years," he says, peering at his letter tiles.

"And now I have it!" Stiles says.

Scott and Allison have a brief, heated conference about what they can spell with their letters, which Scott inevitably loses, and have just taken their turn when the doorbell rings. Stiles glances up and grins. "It's Derek, I'll get it," he says, scrambling to his feet and practically jumping over the table rather than going around it, as Scott shakes his head at his friend.

"I didn't know that he knew what doorbells were for!" Allison says brightly.

"Don't give him too many points," Scott says, making a face. "Now he's making fun of me."

"What'd he say?" Allison asks.

"I said," Derek says from the door to the living room, "that he got himself grounded. That's just a statement of fact." He says this with measured dignity, apparently oblivious to the fact that Stiles has his arms wrapped around his shoulders and is attempting to get a piggy-back ride but is mostly just hanging on Derek's back ineffectually.

"It was your tone," Scott argues, but there's really no challenge in his voice or on his face. He does make a face at Stiles. "Dude, stop trying to climb Derek before you hurt someone. Like yourself."

"He likes it," Stiles says, smirking.

Derek simply reaches around, grabs Stiles by the back of the shirt, and pries him off without commentary. He dumps Stiles back into the seat he had come from and then turns to Melissa McCall with that charming grin he can muster every once in a while, when the occasion calls for it. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. McCall. I've heard a lot about you."

"Dude, cut it out," Stiles says, as the rest of the pack gives Derek a somewhat unnerved look. "You're scaring the kids."

Derek's grin fell away. "It's called being polite and making a good impression."

"You look like a serial killer," Stiles says cheerfully, patting the seat next to him.

Melissa bites back a grin, stands, and shakes Derek's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Derek. Thanks for helping take care of Scott when you could. I know he can make it difficult."

"Hey!" Scott protests immediately. Not because his mother was wrong, exactly, but because Derek didn't exactly make things easy either.

Melissa just gives him a look, but Derek says, "I don't really deserve that much credit, but thanks." Then he sits down next to Stiles, sees that he's about to make some sort of commentary, and takes the orange from Lydia, shoving the remaining half into Stiles' mouth. That causes Scott to crack up, and he forgives Derek for making fun of him. Stiles just chews busily for a minute, while Derek greets Lydia and Allison, and then, grudgingly, Scott. Then he spits orange seeds into Derek's face.

Allison is giggling madly, so Scott jumps in. "Derek, you're not allowed to murder him in our living room. Stiles, stop trying to make him _want_ to."

"Oh, I won't murder him," Derek says. "Then I'd be stuck as your alpha, and we've seen how well _that_ goes."

Melissa's eyebrows hike up. "And how does that go?"

"Kinda like Mr. Stilinski and veggie burgers," Scott says.

"Hey," Stiles says, "one of these days, he is going to learn to like those damned things."

"Yes," Lydia says, "on the day that they invent one that's made of beef. Oh wait . . ."

Now Allison's laughing again. "Veggie burgers are pretty awful. I've tried one."

They continue to bicker amiably for a while. Derek refuses to join the Scrabble game because he knows he'll only lose, and instead sits there with Stiles slowly slumping further and further over, occasionally misspelling words. Lydia and Allison stare at the three empty cans of soda that Stiles has gone through with somewhat perplexed looks on their faces. Scott isn't in the least bit surprised, but doesn't bother to say anything. He's busy trying to figure out if they'll all really fit into his bed, which is a bit smaller than Stiles'.

Before much longer, Stiles is asleep, his face comfortably mashed into Derek's shoulder, with the older man absently rubbing his back. Melissa glances up and gives a little smile. "So he still does that, huh," she said. "I think Stiles could fall asleep during anything."

"Up to and including fireworks," Scott says, for the pack's amusement.

Derek stands, picking Stiles up in a princess carry, which makes both girls giggle again. "I'll take him up to bed," he says, and exits the room without another word.

"That part is new," Melissa muses.

"Wish we had it on film," Scott says, as he puts the Scrabble board away and started to clean up the living room. "Derek won't be back," he adds to his mother.

"Mm hm," Melissa says. "Well, it is getting late. I think I'll head to bed myself." She stands up, then leans over and gives Scott a hug. "You kids behave yourselves. I'll see you in the morning."

He hugs her back tightly. "G'night, mom. Love you." Screw guy shame. After everything else that was said today, he's allowed to tell his mother that he loves her.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm sure versions of this little chat have been written dozens of times... but if you ask me, it'll always be funny._

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski is gradually growing used to the fact that his son is the alpha of a werewolf pack. It means that his house is often the center of a group of noisy teenagers, which is fine, that steaks are typically cooked rare, which is okay as long as Stiles remembers to cook one medium-well for him, which he always does, that he needs to buy a better vacuum because, well, wolves shed. He's used to the fact that Stiles never sleeps alone anymore, so if he's at home, at least one person will be staying with him. More often than not, it's more than one person, and almost always, Derek is there.

So Stilinski is used to seeing Derek in the mornings, and he's used to the fact that he's surly and often wanders around as a wolf, not thinking to shift, and he's used to the fact that Stiles will physically assault him whenever he shows up. It's weird, but okay; he doesn't mind. He _is_ a little taken aback when Derek forgets to put clothes on. He lets it go the first time, but the second time, when Derek is standing in the kitchen, naked, drinking coffee, while Stiles just elbows him around so he can make himself some Pop-Tarts for breakfast, he has to say something.

"Derek," he says, with deliberation, "are you having sex with my son?"

The coffee mug falls from terminally startled fingers as Derek whips around in a sort of horror to face the sheriff. Only his fast wolf reflexes save the mug from a messy end, but there's still fumbling as the hot coffee spills over the edge and all over Derek's hands. "Ow, ow, fuck!" Derek says. The mug is dumped into the sink with alacrity and he looks at Stilinski with dismay. "Why would you ask me that?" His tone conveys that he's both baffled and appalled.

Stiles, who had been just as startled to begin with, starts howling with laughter. "I, I, sorry man, but that was just _too_ priceless, holy crap."

Derek turns a glare on his alpha. "You," he states with calm deliberation, "are an awful person."

Stiles gives a shrug and turns back to his Pop-Tarts. His father clears his throat and says, "Derek, you're kind of naked."

"I'm aware." Derek flexes his hands as the last of the minor burns heal, and then he reaches for a new mug.

"I see," Stilinski says. "What you don't seem to be aware of is that it is not, let's say, customary to wander around naked in other people's houses. Not even the houses of particularly close friends. It's more what you would expect to see if someone was, say, having sex with an occupant of the house. Now, I know you're not having sex with _me_ . . ."

"Oh, _God_, Dad," Stiles yelps.

"I'm not having sex with anyone." The retort is quick and sounds very final. Derek wrinkles his nose and shakes his head in a gesture that would look more at home on his wolf form, like he got a nose full of some nasty smell. He pours himself another mug of coffee to buy time.

"Uh huh." Stilinski does not sound impressed. Or convinced. "You too good for my son, is that it?"

"What?!" Derek squawks, nearly losing the new mug. He set it down carefully. He had just wanted a fucking cup of fucking coffee.

"Oh my God, Dad," Stiles repeats, chortling. "Stop traumatizing him. We're not having sex, okay? He just forgets to put on clothes because he shifts back and forth all the time and has ever since he was a kid. The day I start having sex, you'll know, because I will play the Hallelujah chorus at full volume no matter what time it is."

Derek heaves a sigh and eyes the sheriff like he's the predator in the room, feeling only a little bit guilty for letting Stiles handle this. Stiles is the alpha, after all. He cautiously makes a move towards his coffee.

"Uh huh," Stilinski says again, giving his son a narrow-eyed look. "You know that there's nothing wrong with homosexuality, right?"

Derek's mug thumps back down, splashing his hand. The noise he makes is almost a small wolf whine in the back of his throat.

"Uh, yeah, Dad," Stiles says. "I'm a member of the cool new generation. It's old fogeys like you who have problems with gays. Anyway, I'm friends with Danny, remember? Dude's been sure he was gay since he was eleven."

"I'm just saying," Stilinski says, "if you two _are_ in a relationship, you shouldn't be embarrassed to tell me."

"I'm not having sex with anyone," Derek repeats. "At all." When had this become his life? He abandons his mug and edges closer to Stiles.

"Dude, you say it like I'd be a terrible lay," Stiles says. "I would be fantastic in bed! So just keep your opinions to yourself. You too, Dad," he says, when he sees his father open his mouth. "If Derek _was_ sexing me up, you'd arrest him for statutory, so don't try to pull off this 'I'm the cool dad' routine. Nobody's buying it."

As soon as Stiles says that, Derek officially can't be part of this conversation anymore. He's done. He shifts and lays down on the floor in the relatively small space between Stiles' legs and the cupboard under the counter. He doesn't want to think about what sort of lay Stiles would be.

"Well," Sheriff Stilinski says, "I'm glad we got that cleared up. Stiles, you know if you need me to buy you condoms . . ."

"Dad, it would be eight hundred times _less_ embarrassing to buy them for myself," Stiles tells him.

Derek squeezes his eyes closed and lays his ears back, whining again.

"Just as long as you _will_ buy them for yourself, when you need them," his father says.

"Yes, Dad, I solemnly promise that on my thirtieth birthday, when I might actually get laid, I will buy condoms."

Derek considers relaxing, but decides against it. Every other time he thought the danger was over, the sheriff fired another round. Such is the case now, because Stilinski nods and says, "Derek, if you happen to be there, I expect you to hold him to that."

Derek's feet scramble as he tries to bolt, but he's wedged himself in too tightly and he gets no traction on the linoleum floor. There's just the sound of his claws ticking frantically and uselessly before he gives up and goes limp.

"Now you're just being mean," Stiles says, though he sounds privately sort of amused. He steps away from the counter to give Derek room to run away if he wants to. Derek slinks away low and fast, giving in to the instinct to use the kitchen table as cover on the way to the living room. Stiles just looks at his father and says, "You're a terrible person."

"And just think, kid, you get half your genes from me."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This short would come a few months after the conclusion of Coming Undone. At a request from my girlfriend, who loves her Derek angst. =D_

_I don't know if it's canon or fanon that Laura and Derek moved to New York City after the Hale house fire, but I went with it. It seems like they would have needed a change of scenery._

Spring break. That mythical week that teenagers can only dream of. They hear stories about beaches and bikini-clad women. Wild romps in the sun and parties that never end.

The reality, Stiles thinks as he stares out the window at the pouring rain, is much less exciting.

It could be worse, he supposes, given the past year of his life. But the pack has been temporarily split up, and he isn't a huge fan of that. They're lucky that the vacation week falls the same week as the new moon, or else he doesn't know what they would do. Erica's only been in the pack for a little over a month now, and her first full moon was not an experience he likes to remember.

In any case, Lydia has entered a science competition at Stanford, something about an artificial tadpole brain, and left Thursday night. She'll be gone all week. Allison's parents decided to take a camping/training trip up in the mountains. None of them are exactly thrilled about this, but there wasn't much of an argument that they could make. Since she's gone, Scott will obviously be mooning and moping around the entire week, so his company is right out.

So now Stiles is lying on his bed on Saturday morning, staring out the window, tossing a hackey-sack to himself and thinking that as vacations go, this one has not gotten off to a very promising start.

He's aware of Derek in his doorway, because he's always peripherally aware of Derek now, but doesn't react to his presence until Derek says, suddenly, "I need you to go somewhere with me."

Stiles looks over at him and fights against inertia. He loses, and stays slumped against his pillows. "Mmkay. Where?"

"New York City."

Inertia loses to surprise. Stiles sits up and blinks at the older man. "I thought you meant, like, to the video store or grocery store. New York City?"

Derek nods. "You don't have school next week."

"Yes . . ." Stiles says, still confused. "But it seems a little odd to suddenly be planning a trip to the Big Apple."

There's a silence that goes on a minute too long to be comfortable. Derek's jaw is set in that tight, tense expression that most people mistake as anger, but Stiles knows to be anxiety. "I left New York very suddenly," he finally says. "I still have some things there at the apartment. I need to make some arrangements and sign some paperwork, and pick some stuff up."

"Oh," Stiles says. He yawns. The rain is making him sleepy. "Well, you don't need me for that. The pack's all split up right now anyway. You have my blessing, go in peace."

"No," Derek says, almost a snarl. When Stiles blinks at him, he looks away, studying the window. "I . . . don't really want to go by myself."

"Oh." Stiles says. "Oh. Okay." He springs up off his bed. "Did you get tickets?" he asks, since Derek is the one with all the money.

"I figured we would drive," Derek says.

Stiles actually laughs at this absurd response. Then he sees Derek's face. "Shit. You're serious."

Derek scowls at him. "I don't like flying. Wolves are not meant to fly. Wolves are meant to have either two feet or four paws on the ground."

"Okay," Stiles says, and rubs his hand over the back of his head. "Yeah, okay, but . . . you're not thinking this through, Derek. I mean, it's difficult to have two locations that are further apart in the continental United States than southern California and New York City. It's gotta take at least four or five days, right? My vacation is only nine days long. So we'd be able to spend, at most, a day in the city."

"That's fine," Derek says. "The less time we're there, the happier I'll be."

"Look," Stiles says, "I'm trying to be as tactful as possible here and give you an easy out, but it doesn't seem to be working, so let's try this again. You. Want to spend. Eight days. In a car. With _me_."

Derek glowers at him.

"Dude, nobody wants to spend eight days in a car with me," Stiles says. "Scott doesn't want to do that. My dad wouldn't want to do that. Hell, _I_ don't want to do that."

The glower moves on to a growl. "I'm not flying. Anyway, I'll have things to bring back."

"You could ship them – " Stiles starts, but sees that his protests are in vain. "Ohhhhhhh-kay. I guess we'll drive. Lemme call my dad."

Sheriff Stilinski is, to put it mildly, skeptical of this plan. He also doesn't seem fond of the idea of his sixteen year old son gallivanting off with a twenty-four year old man for his spring break. Stiles has to put Derek on the phone and watch him wince through an entire conversation about why Stiles' virtue will remain intact during this trip. The conversation involves his shotgun. It also, as per usual, involves Derek trying not to cry.

While they're having that talk, Stiles takes out a suitcase and tosses in a few pairs of jeans and khakis, a stack of T-shirts, and a few hoodies. He brings a spare pair of sneakers just in case they encounter bad weather, and a jacket. He's never been east of the Mississippi, and has no real idea what New York City will be like in March.

He takes a stack of books, his laptop, and loads his iPod up with music. He brings a spare pair of earbuds in case his die. Then he goes into the bathroom and grabs some toiletries and his Adderall. By the time he's done with that, Derek is off the phone. Stiles takes it back and calls Scott, giving him a brief summary of the situation.

"You can handle Isaac and Erica while we're gone?" he asks.

"Sure," Scott says. "I'll call you if anything happens. We'll teach Erica how to play lacrosse."

"She'll love you forever, I'm sure," Stiles says, and then says his goodbyes and hangs up.

"We'll take the Jeep," Derek says, in that authoritarian tone that makes Stiles roll his eyes, particularly when it's regarding decisions that technically, he should be the one making. "We'll need room for my stuff."

"So, how much did you bring with you?" Stiles asks curiously, tossing his suitcase in the back. He notes that Derek has already deposited a duffel bag with his own things in it. "Is this why you only seem to own three shirts?"

Derek gives him a blank look.

"Ohhhh-kay," Stiles says, "guess not."

He gets behind the wheel and heads to the gas station. While he feels up the tank, Derek runs inside and grabs a few sodas and some chips to fortify them on their journey. They don't really talk again until they're almost two hours out of town, heading east on I-80. Then Derek says, "When I came out here, I didn't realize I'd be staying."

That makes sense. He hadn't even known Laura was dead when he left, let alone anything else that was going on. "Why _did_ you come out here, anyway?" Stiles asks, realizing that he doesn't actually know.

Derek's jaw is tight again. "Laura wasn't returning my calls."

So he had known something was wrong, just not what, or how serious it was. "Did you bring anything at all?"

After a pause, Derek shakes his head. "After I realized I would be here a while, I got the apartment and bought some stuff to put in it." He stares out the window, watching the windshield wipers swish back and forth. "It's not that I'm really attached to any of the stuff. I just don't feel right leaving it there."

"Gotcha," Stiles says. "So have you been paying rent on two places?"

"No. Laura owned the apartment in Manhattan. She left it to me in her will, along with all the contents." Derek's quiet for a minute. "That's part of what I had to do. The realtors need me to sign some things so they can put it back on the market."

"You don't want to keep it?" Stiles asks.

"No," Derek says. "I want to get my things and then I never want to go back to that city again."

"Okay," Stiles says, lifting a hand in surrender. "That's cool."

Derek slumps in his seat, and they continue to drive in silence. They leave the rain behind and begin making good time, zooming down the highway at eighty miles per hour. Stiles becomes insanely bored about the same time they reach Nevada, and demands they switch so he can play on his phone. Derek takes the wheel with moderately good grace and tries not to roll his eyes as Stiles begins narrating his game of Angry Birds.

The trip isn't as bad as it could be. Actually, Stiles thinks it's a fairly enlightening experience. He's not good at being confined, but his Jeep is something he considers a safe space, so his claustrophobia doesn't bother him. They enjoy the scenery and eat at greasy little diners and stay at cheap hotels. Derek has enough money for expensive hotels, but Stiles insists that staying at places like The Budget Inn is required on American road trips. Derek agrees because that's easier than arguing.

Stiles talks and talks and talks, and he plays loud music and sings along and drums on the steering wheel, he reads books and plays games on his phone and looks up trivia about the strange towns they pass through and suggests detours and complains incessantly about how bored he is. Derek drives, pumps gas, stares out the window in silence, and occasionally tells Stiles to shut up.

It's late on the fourth day when they reach New York. Stiles suggests they go straight to the apartment and skip another night in a hotel, but Derek vetoes this plan with vehemence that comes close to rage. Stiles has no desire to challenge that particular hang-up, but he insists on staying in a _nice_ hotel since they're in New York City, after all. Derek rolls his eyes but gets them a room at an upscale place in Manhattan, where Stiles gleefully orders half the room service menu and takes a million pictures to post to Facebook from his phone. He falls asleep practically midsentence, slumped onto the bed. Derek has to take his shoes off.

They're up early the next morning because they've got a lot to do and Derek was really too restless to sleep very much. They leave the Jeep in the hotel parking lot and take a cab to a local storage place, where they pick up some boxes before heading to Derek's old apartment building. Stiles exclaims over almost everything he sees, and the ruder the New Yorkers are, the more he likes them. He insists on getting a hot dog at a stand even though it's not even nine AM, because he can.

Everything's all well and good until they actually get to the apartment and Derek inserts the key in the lock. He twists it, and they both hear the 'shunk' of the lock coming undone. But then he just stands there, unmoving. He can't seem to actually open the door.

"You okay?" Stiles finally asks, after almost a full minute has gone by, although the answer is quite obviously no.

Derek swallows convulsively and then takes a step back from the door, leaving the key in the lock. "I thought . . . I thought I was ready for this." Now he does look angry, but Stiles knows that he's only angry at himself. "For Christ's sake. It's been eight months."

Stiles leans against the wall opposite the apartment door and sits down. He watches Derek stalk up and down the hallway by himself for a minute. Then he pats the floor next to him and says, "Sit."

Reluctantly, Derek sits.

"I was seven years old when my mom died," Stiles says. "And at first I didn't really get it. I mean, I knew she had been sick, I wasn't an idiot, but your average seven-year-old does not grasp death as a concept. I got all the usual clichés, about how Mommy was in Heaven now, and she was watching over me, blah blah bullshit blah. And so of course I kept asking my dad when Mommy was coming _back_ from Heaven, because I needed her help with my homework or I had popped a button off my shirt or I really wanted that strawberry pie she made. And every time, my dad looked like I had kicked him in the balls, and every time, he sat down and explained to me that Heaven was a place you couldn't come back from, but someday I would go there too.

"And every time, I would be okay until the _next_ time I needed my mom for something, and then I would start asking about her again. Until finally, almost a year after my mother died, I went into my parents' bedroom and found my dad packing up her clothes.

"I was _livid_. I mean, you cannot even understand the epic scale of the temper tantrum I threw. How _dare_ he? How could she come back if he was going to give away all her things? Why would he do that? I was so angry at him, I didn't speak to him for days. And my dad just . . . unpacked all her things and put them back in the closet. Because he was ready. But I wasn't. I made him keep her stuff in his room for two God damned _years_ after he was ready to get rid of it. Until finally I was old enough to get what death was and I helped him pack it all up and we took it down to the thrift store together.

"So I know that I can never understand the scope of what you've lost, and I know that I can never understand what it must be like, but _God_, Derek, I understand this. And if you want to turn around and get back in the car and drive all the way back to motherfucking California without ever setting foot in this apartment, I will do that with you and I will never, _ever_ mock you for it. Because you don't have to be ready."

Derek is quiet for a long time. He knows that can't have been an easy story for Stiles to tell, so finally, he nods and says, "Thanks."

Stiles nods back. "No problem."

"But . . . I have to do this," Derek says. "Leaving it like this . . . is like having a ghost hanging over my shoulder. I have to put it to rest."

"Okay," Stiles says. "Then let's get it done. Let's have a strategy so we can get in and out quickly."

Derek nods. For a few minutes they discuss what he wants to take and what he wants to donate. What order they want to do things in, what he figures they'll need.

Stiles stands up and offers a hand to Derek, which the older man accepts. Then he takes a deep breath, puts a hand on the knob, and goes inside.

It's a nice place. Stiles can see that Laura definitely was the decorator. Derek's apartment in Beacon Hills is almost Spartan in its lack of décor, and Stiles doesn't think that's because he meant it to be temporary. He just doesn't have any interest in that sort of thing. But this apartment has framed pictures on the walls, a vase on the table, knick-knacks on several shelves mounted along the wall. A throw blanket is neatly folded over the back of the sofa.

It's surprisingly clean. Stiles mentions this, and Derek nods and says that they had a cleaning service, and he never bothered to cancel it, although he did downgrade it to once a month.

They start in the kitchen. It's a nice, impersonal area without a lot of emotion attached. Derek has since replaced pretty much everything in it in terms of dishes, and he doesn't need much in terms of cookware. They break out the boxes and start loading things up. Stiles labels some boxes 'California' and others 'donations'. The vast majority of the things in the kitchen go into the donations box. Derek takes the blender, which he hasn't yet replaced, and Stiles asks permission to take some of the kitchen gadgets Laura had, like a digital meat thermometer and a heat-proof spatula. He takes the crock pot, too, because when one is regularly cooking for eight people, there's no such thing as too many crock pots.

The fridge is pretty much empty, the contents having been thrown away by the cleaning lady when she was notified of Derek's extended absence. What's left is a twelve pack of soda, half-empty, a six-pack of beer, some condiments and jelly, and a bag of potatoes in the bottom drawer. Stiles puts the beverages with the things to go to the car, and throws out everything else. The pantry is a little more promising; there are some unopened cans and boxes of crackers and pasta and such. He packs them up, because there's no point in wasting food, and throws away everything open since it's undoubtedly stale by now.

From there, they move into the living room. Derek goes through the books and movies. Stiles notices that he seems to be keeping anything that looks like it might have been Laura's and discarding things that were his own. But he keeps his mouth shut about it. It's not his business what Derek wants to keep or not.

He does want to keep the throw blanket, though, because it's nice, and starts wrapping up some of the knick-knacks in newspaper, because he knows that Derek will want them. They were Laura's. They finish the living room in about an hour. The bathroom only takes about ten minutes and most of what's inside is thrown out. The linen closet takes even less time; everything there goes straight into the donation box. Derek has enough towels and sheets.

The next room is Derek's. It looks much like what one would except from a young man: messy and disorganized. The cleaning woman has picked up some, but still, the books are stacked haphazardly, his socks are crammed awkwardly into a drawer, and there are posters tacked to the wall rather than the neatly framed pictures in the rest of the apartment. One is a movie poster for Indiana Jones; the other is for a band Stiles has never heard of. There are some postcards tacked up, too, of different places around the world.

Derek works in silence. He packs up his clothes and books, not really looking at them. He's bought himself an entire new wardrobe in the meantime, so only a few of the T-shirts and an old pair of jeans go into the box to go back to California. The rest goes into the donation pile. He does bring most of his books and the stack of CDs on one side of the room. The bed has been stripped of sheets and the cleaning service never remade it, so it's just a mattress. Derek rolls up the posters and packs away the postcards. Stiles busies himself sorting things in the donation boxes so he won't notice when Derek furtively takes a stuffed wolf out of a drawer and tucks it into the box with his clothes.

That's everything except for Laura's room, and Stiles knows he left it for last out of reluctance. But he's steady on his feet as he crosses the hallway from his own bedroom, steady on his feet as he turns the knob and goes in. And then he collapses. His knees practically unhinge and Stiles has to drop the box of books he's carrying, narrowly missing his own toes, to grab Derek and keep him on his feet. "Are you – "

"It still has her scent," Derek says, his voice barely a whisper. "I thought – I thought enough time would have – that it had been cleaned enough to – " The words trail off into a strangled moan. Stiles helps him to the floor, where he presses his face against the blankets on Laura's bed and lets out a muffled howl of grief and agony.

Stiles sits down beside him, wraps his arms around Derek, snaking one around his waist and the other across his shoulders. He holds him as tight as he can, but he says nothing. There's nothing he can say, no words that can diminish this pain. He remembers the night after the hit-and-run had put his father in the hospital, how Derek had just sat with him, not saying anything. How words would have only made things worse. So now he sits with Derek, and holds him. He's never seen Derek cry before, but now he sobs into Laura's bed like he's been split in half and the emotions he's kept pent up for months are gushing out.

They sit for what feels like hours. Stiles isn't good at sitting and being quiet, but when it's this important, he can manage. His mind wanders, which feels almost blasphemous to him, but he can't help it. He becomes preoccupied with working out the math of how much gas has cost on the trip so far, and calculating the Jeep's gas mileage. It keeps him from fidgeting.

Finally, Derek sits up and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. He leans forward, resting his forehead against the crook of Stiles' neck. They sit like that another minute, and then he pulls away. "I – I have to get out of here," he says. "I just – I can't."

Stiles nods and says, "Why don't you start carrying boxes downstairs? I'll pack up in here."

"Yeah, that – that sounds good," Derek says, and flees the room without attempting to have any dignity. Stiles grabs a stack of boxes and gets to work.

He works as quickly as he can, although he's careful when he needs to be. Laura had much more stuff than Derek did. The clothes go straight into donation boxes; there's no need to bring them. Almost everything else, Derek wants. Stiles packs up her books and her papers, her music and her movies, her blankets and stuffed animals.

Derek takes his time with the boxes, which Stiles can't blame him for. By the time he's carried them downstairs and called a car to pick them up, Stiles is done. They bring down the last of the boxes together.

The realtor meets them at the hotel. Derek signs some papers. A charity organization is going to come pick up the boxes of donations, and take the furniture as well. The apartment will be empty by the end of the week so it can then be sold. The proceeds will go to the World Wildlife Foundation. All this is left in the realtor's hands.

It's midafternoon by the time they get back to the hotel with all the boxes. The driver helps them transfer the things from his car to Stiles' Jeep. With the seats folded down, it all fits, although getting it all reminds Stiles a lot of playing Tetris. Now he wants to play Tetris. He downloads the app to his phone. It's still four days in the car to get home.

Derek hesitantly asks Stiles about dinner, but Stiles knows that Derek just wants to get out of the city. So he says he's not hungry and gets behind the wheel, watching some of the tension leave Derek's shoulders. The other man gets in the passenger seat and stares out the window. After a while, he closes his eyes. Stiles uses his GPS to navigate his way out of the city so he won't have to bother him. It's a little late, but they can still put five or six hours of road behind them before they'll have to stop for the night.

They're well into Pennsylvania before Derek stirs again. "You hungry?" he asks.

"Starved," Stiles replies.

"Why don't we stop and grab some dinner, then."

"Okey dokey." Stiles flicks his turn signal on and gets in the right lane. There's an exit coming up in a couple miles.

"Thanks," Derek says to his window. "For coming with me."

Stiles thinks of a lot of possible responses, like the standard 'you're welcome' or equally plausible 'any time' or 'no problem', none of which really seem right to him because to him, it doesn't seem like there's anything to thank him for. Taking care of his pack is more than his job, it's his _life_, his place in the universe. To him, it's natural that he did this.

But to Derek, it's not natural, because Derek isn't used to being able to depend on people. And Derek doesn't want this to be a big deal, and Derek doesn't want to be sappy or emotional right now.

So in the end Stiles does just say, "You're welcome," and then follows it up with, "Any time," and then follows that up with, "Ooh, this exit has a Perkins, I could really go for some pie right now," and also, "Did you know that the Jeep gets really crappy gas mileage? Maybe I should bring it in for a tune-up," and then he sees that faint little smile on Derek's face, the smile that means 'Stiles is being an idiot again'.

And Derek tells him to shut up, and Stiles doesn't, and that's when they both know that everything is going to be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

_Written by request for Eavis. Wolves playing in the snow! =D_

* * *

It's not unheard of to get snow in Beacon Hills, but it doesn't happen very often. They're far enough south in California, and not high enough in the mountains, that snow is not a regular thing. So when Stiles wakes up to find four inches of snow on the ground, he becomes extremely excited. He bounces up and down on the bed, waking the others. "Guys! Guys! It snowed last night! It totally fuckin' snowed!"

"Mm?" Allison stirs sleepily and her eyes flutter open. "Oh, wow," she says through a yawn. "They said we'd probably only get freezing rain."

"This is awesome!" Bounce, bounce, bounce. "Get up, everyone! Come on!"

Scott laughs and climbs out of bed, giving Allison a quick kiss on the temple as he gets up and pulls on a pair of jeans. "There's no use putting him off when this happens," he says, with the voice of experience.

Derek opens one eye and growls, then appears to go back to sleep. Lydia makes one of her chuffing noises and then transforms back into a beautiful young woman. Both Stiles and Scott hastily avert their eyes as she pulls on her underwear. "Only because you're the alpha," she says. She leans over and ruffles Isaac's fur as he climbs out of bed and pads to the bathroom. The lack of modesty that the pack generally displays around shifting has never infected him.

Erica, for her part, has no problem bouncing out of bed and shifting back to her human form. "I've _never_ played in the snow, would you believe that?" she asks, standing there completely naked. "Because exertion could bring on seizures, and outside in a snowstorm wouldn't be a good place to have one."

"I, uh, I see," Stiles says, holding a hand in front of his face. "I see quite a bit right now, actually, so you could maybe . . ."

"Why bother?" she asks, giving him a cheeky grin. "Fur will be better in the snow anyway." She transforms back and trots out of the room with Scott and Allison on her heels.

Derek is still curled up in the center of the bed. Stiles reaches over and tweaks his ear. He growls. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Stiles urges. "It snowed! It motherfucking snowed, get up!"

Derek shifts back for better glowering ability. "What are you, five years old?" he asks.

"Close enough," Stiles agrees. "If you're not outside in ten minutes, I will bring the snow to you. Don't think I won't!"

Derek groans as Stiles shimmies into his jeans, grabs a sweatshirt, and bounds out of the room. By the time he's downstairs, several of the others are outside. "Cheaters!" he shouts to the batch of wolves romping around in the backyard. Allison laughs as she laces up her boots. "Just because they don't need winter clothes," Stiles grumbles, pulling on his coat and gloves.

Allison just laughs again and crams a hat with a pom-pom onto his head. "But they don't have hands, and we do. Sneak attack?"

Stiles' eyes light up. "If you weren't my best friend's girlfriend . . ."

They go out the side gate and start stocking up on snowballs. The snow is perfect for it: wet and heavy, great packing snow. Once they each have half a dozen, they charge around the corner, laughing maniacally and pelting the wolves. By mutual agreement, they avoid Isaac, who's been beaten up on enough in his life, and focus on the other three. Erica lets out a yip as one catches her in the ear, and the wolves all run for cover. Scott jumps up and grabs one in his mouth, crunching down on it.

"Show off!" Stiles shouts at him. Scott just gives a whuff of a laugh, and then Erica and Lydia both jump on Stiles, pulling him down into the snow. He laughs and tries to push them off. "C'mon, let's build a fort!"

The wolves help as best they can while Stiles directs them, patting down snow with their paws. Five minutes later, Derek finally puts in an appearance. He comes out onto the back porch in his wolf form and presses one paw into the snow. His nose wrinkles and his ears lie back on the top of his head. Stiles points and laughs at him from the relative safety of the wall they've constructed, and Derek gathers back on his haunches.

"Take cover!" Allison says, laughing, and all the wolves dive behind the fort as Derek lunges forward. He bursts through the wall of snow and takes Stiles in a full tackle, knocking him to the ground. Stiles lets out a whoop of laughter and says, "Ha, who's five years old now?" before dropping the snowball he was holding on top of Derek's head. Derek whuffs and sneezes while Stiles scrambles free.

Derek intends to go after him, but then gets completely distracted by scratching his back against a tree, and a few moments later is just rolling around in the snow. Allison hides her giggles behind her hand. Stiles doesn't bother. Derek chomps down on part of the fort and sneezes again. He herds Isaac and Erica back into the safety of the fort as Stiles starts another snowball assault.

Two hours later, the sun is high in the sky, the snow in the backyard has been decimated, and they're all thoroughly worn out. They head inside, melted snow dripping off their coats. Allison lays down some towels while Stiles starts making cocoa. He watches Allison trying to rub down Scott's fur and says, "I don't think that's going to work . . ."

"Yeah," Allison agrees, and starts handing out towels instead as they all shift back with varying levels of embarrassment. They start drying themselves off, or in Isaac's case wrapping the towel around his waist before reaching for a second one.

Stiles has just finished handing out the mugs of cocoa when the front door opens and Sheriff Stilinski comes in, kicking snow off his boots. He looks at the assembled group of mostly naked young men and women in his kitchen, looks at Stiles, and says, "You know, there was a time when I didn't have to knock before I came into my own house."

"You didn't knock," Stiles points out.

"The more fool I," his father replies.

"Cocoa?" Stiles says, offering him a mug.

"Sure," Stilinski says, shrugging out of his coat. "Sounds good to me."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: This happened when I was trying to nail down a concrete timeline. A little fic that would take place during Coming Undone, somewhere in the middle of chapter eight. I know it's a little late for Christmas fic, but oh well._

_Extra note: After I wrote this fic, my girlfriend said, " . . . isn't Stiles Jewish?" We had a debate over it and ultimately decided that we've seen it in fanon but there's nothing mentioned in canon, at least not the canon we've seen. So if I've screwed that up and he is, apologies. But the fic was too cute not to post. =D_

* * *

Stiles wakes up with a start as the nurse comes in to do her eight AM vitals check. He yawns and stretches and mumbles something in return to her greeting. "You want some breakfast, honey?" she asks him, making an adjustment to his father's IV.

"Sure," Stiles says, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He looks over at the clock and tries to remember why he's sleeping next to his father's bed in the hospital. Had he been sick last night? No, if he recalls correctly, the day before had actually been a fairly good day. His father had been awake off and on most of the evening, and mostly coherent although often confused. He had been able to do some multiplication problems and name animals, remember his name and date of birth, express acknowledgement of where he was and that he was there because he had been hit by a car, even though he remembered nothing of the incident itself. A good day.

In the end, Stiles decides that he must have just fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, and that when Melissa had come to pick him up, she had decided to let him sleep rather than disturb him. Even sleep in the hospital was better than no sleep at all, and she knew that if she woke him, he might stay up all night.

He's by himself, which is somewhat surprising. He would have expected someone to come stay the night with him. But he supposes the others do have their own lives to attend to, even Derek. He can't remember if the older man was there the night before. All the days are blending together.

An orderly brings him in a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. She's drawn a little smiley face out of the ketchup, and he smiles a little as he eats his breakfast despite the fact that he doesn't really want it. He's just finished when Scott pokes his head in. "Hey, you're still here?" he says, despite the obvious answer, and Stiles nods. "Uh . . . do you know what day it is?" he asks.

Stiles rubs both hands over his face and scrapes through his memory. "No. Shit. Am I supposed to be in school?" He hasn't been in school for a couple days now, come to think of it, and Melissa hasn't been pestering him to go.

"No. You really don't know?" Scott asks, and Stiles just blinks at him. "Stiles . . . it's Christmas."

"Oh." Stiles continues to blink. He supposes he was aware, in a peripheral sort of fashion, that it's the Christmas season. Of course he was. The winter dance had been on the second Friday in December, and that had been . . . how many weeks ago now? Two? Maybe three? He honestly isn't sure. But it's impossible to ignore Christmas; it's everywhere. There's been a tree in Scott's living room, as well as Allison's. On the occasions he's been at the pharmacy or the grocery store, there's Christmas stuff everywhere, Christmas music playing. He was aware. He just didn't give a shit.

"C'mon," Scott says. "My mom's gonna make a ham and stuff."

Stiles shakes his head a little. "No, I think . . . I think I'll stay here today." He forces a smile onto his face. "You go home. Tell your mom I said hi and merry Christmas."

"Are you sure?" Scott asks, doubt written all over his face.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says. "I'll be fine here."

"Well . . . okay." Scott seems a little reluctant, but they exchange a bro-hug and then he leaves the room. Stiles slumps back into his chair, pushes his plate aside, and sighs. He takes out his phone and looks at his empty inbox for almost a full minute before texting Derek to say 'merry Christmas'. Wherever the other man is, he's likely just as miserable.

He plays games for a little while and his father snoozes on. Stiles hopes it's not going to be another one of those days where he worries all day that 'sleep' is actually 'depressed state of consciousness', although he supposes that's part of what the monitors are for.

Almost an hour has passed when there's a knock on the door, which is ajar, and Scott comes back in. He's wearing a Santa hat now, and pulling a wagon full of stuff. "Hey," he says again.

"Hey," Stiles says, and laughs a little. "What's all this?"

"Well, we decided that since you wouldn't come to Christmas, we would bring Christmas to you," he says, and pulls the wagon inside. His mother is behind him, and so are Lydia and Allison. Each of them is carrying a laundry basket full of stuff. The wagon has a little decorative tree made out of metal, with candy canes and bells hanging off the branches. Scott sets it up in the corner.

"God, guys," Stiles says, laughing again. "You didn't have to . . ."

Lydia gives him an affectionate cuff upside the head. "Don't even think about finishing that sentence," she says, so Stiles shuts his mouth. Lydia has the food. A baking dish full of cinnamon rolls, a gallon of egg nog, and two dishes wrapped in foil that have bacon and ham on them. Allison's basket has a crock pot and a gallon of cider, in addition to several brightly wrapped gifts. Melissa's basket is completely full of gifts, which she starts stowing underneath the tree.

Stiles blinks at them. "I . . . didn't get anyone anything," he says stupidly.

Scott rolls his eyes at him. "No shit, Sherlock," he says. "You can make it up to us later."

Stiles nods a little and looks over as Allison sets the crock pot down and plugs it in, in the corner. She starts pouring cider into it and says, "We brought the spices. Mrs. McCall says you make really good mulled cider."

"Oh, sure, yeah." Stiles scoots over and picks up the little containers of cloves, allspice, and cinnamon. He busies himself while Lydia sets out the food. "Did, uhm, did anyone think to tell Derek about this?" he asks.

"We texted him, but . . ." Scott says.

"But 'bah, humbug'?" Stiles assumes, and Scott laughs a little and nods. Stiles pulls out his phone and texts, 'get your ass down here, Grinch', before tucking the phone away again. "We'll wait to eat until he gets here," he says, so they start opening presents. Stiles gets a movie from Allison and some books that are more like bricks from Lydia, about forensic science and psychological profiling, which are both fields he's thought about making a career in. Scott gives him a few video games, and Melissa gives him some CDs. All in all, he gets a pretty good batch of loot. The others open their gifts from each other, too. Scott gives Allison a beautiful necklace that probably cost him six months of wages from Dr. Deaton's office. Allison has gotten them a set of those Claddagh promise rings, which leads to at least ten minutes of goopiness on both their parts.

Derek skulks in before much longer, and Stiles tugs him down to sit on the floor next to him. They divvy out the food and stuff their faces.

Allison and Lydia have to go home not long after that, since they have their own family celebrations to get to. The others stay, though. Scott has brought Uno and Fluxx, and Melissa actually brought a set of poker chips, so they sit around and play cards and chat about things unrelated to what's been going on lately.

Around noon, Sheriff Stilinski stirs and his eyes flicker open. "Mm . . . I smell cider," he says.

"Yeah, Dad, it's Christmas," Stiles says, leaning over him. "You want some?"

"Yeah," his father says.

Stiles gives Melissa a questioning look, and she smiles and says, "It should be fine. He's not on a restricted diet beyond no alcohol or caffeine."

So Stiles ladles out a mug of the cider. It's still hot, so he carefully blows on each spoonful before delivering it into his father's mouth. "Good stuff," Stilinski says.

"Yep," Stiles says. "How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad," his father replies. "A little foggy, still."

"It'll get better," Stiles promises him.

Stilinski reaches out with one hand to tousle his hair. It takes him a couple tries to get his arm to work that well, but he manages it. "Merry Christmas, Stiles."

Stiles grins at him. "Merry Christmas, Dad."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Lengthy discussion about how hilarious it was to make Derek squirm led to a serious fic. How'd that happen?_

* * *

"Hey, Dad?" Stiles pokes his head into the dining room to find his father sitting at the table with some files spread out in front of him. "Can we talk?"

These words from any son send a chill up their father's spine. Stiles is not an exception; in fact, he is the rule. Sheriff Stilinski looks up from the files in what's very close to alarm. The serious expression on Stiles' face does not comfort him. "Sure. What's up?" He looks around, expecting to see Derek or Erica or someone else behind him, but there's no one. "Where's everybody else?"

"Asleep at Scott's, still," Stiles says. "I snuck out early."

Now the alarm bells are turning into warning sirens. It's obvious that Stiles hasn't slept much, if at all, as he so commonly does not. But his father keeps his composure and gestures to the chair across from him. Stiles sits down and fidgets. There's a long minute before he says, "Do you trust me?"

An automatic 'of course' wants to fall out of Stilinski's mouth, but it's such a lie. He hesitates.

Stiles sees the moment of indecision and hastily clarifies. "I mean, not 'do you trust me not to make stupid decisions' or 'do you trust me to obey the law' or any of that stuff that, uh, I'm not really good at. I mean, do you trust me to be honest with you? That although sometimes I may hide things or refuse to answer your questions, that I would never, ever, sit down and look you in the eye and lie to you?"

"Yeah," Stilinski says, and this is true. Ever since the debacle over the course of the previous fall, Stiles has been honest and open with him. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay." Stiles meets his gaze. "Then I'm not having sex with Derek."

"Oh, kid, I know that," his father says. "I – "

"You just like giving him a hard time," Stiles says. "I know. But . . . I need you to stop. Because . . . geez, this is hard to explain without giving away his secrets, but . . . you're _hurting_ him, Dad. When he gets all awkward and uncomfortable, it's not because he's embarrassed. It's because he's _hurting_. Because he's honestly revolted by the fact that you seem to think he's the kind of person who would take advantage of a traumatized sixteen-year-old boy."

"Oh." Stilinski presses his lip together. "Shit. I, I don't mean it that way."

"Dude, I know that," Stiles says. "I know that you're just giving him shit because, well, that's what guys do. But Derek's got his fair share of issues, and I, I need you to step off this one. Because my job is to protect my pack. And that includes Derek. And . . . it includes protecting them from you, if I have to."

Stilinski lets out a breath. "I'm sorry," he says.

"I know. I know you never meant it that way. And it's not like I don't see how you might have gotten that idea. But . . . I'm pretty much straight. And so is Derek, inasmuch as he's anything."

Stilinski narrows his eyes. While his son fidgets and steals his mug of coffee for a few swallows, he makes a mental revisitation of the Hale house file. About how he had figured that the arsonist was close to someone in the Hale family. There was just too much they knew about where everyone would be and how to keep everyone in the house.

He waits until Stiles puts down the mug, then looks at him and says, "Kate Argent?"

Stiles looks surprised for a moment, but he didn't get his genes for intelligence from nowhere, and then he nods and says nothing.

"Derek would have been . . . what, sixteen?"

"Fifteen," Stiles says.

"Jesus," his father replies.

"Yeah," Stiles says.

Stilinski, who knows his son well, says, "Does he know that you know about this?"

Stiles shakes his head. "He's . . . said things, after his nightmares, a couple times. I put the pieces together. But shit, Dad, what can I say? She's dead. We can't exactly put her on trial. And I'm afraid if I bring it up, I'll just make things worse. If he wants to deal with it by putting it to the back of his mind, maybe that's okay."

"Maybe," his father says, but he makes a mental note not to let on that he's figured it out, either.

"So this whole thing, it's a joke to us, but it's _not_ a joke to him. Because he remembers what Kate did to him, and he's upset that you think he would do the same thing to me. He's doing this thing now where he doesn't touch me if you're around, and that's hard for him. It's hard for both of us."

"Okay." Stilinski lifts his hands in surrender. "I owe him an apology, and I'll make sure he gets one."

"Thanks, Dad." Stiles is obviously relieved.

"You know what the ironic thing is?" Stilinski asks, with a slight smile. "If you two _were_ an item . . . I would be completely okay with that. Because I _do_ trust Derek to treat you right and do right by you."

"Heh," Stiles says. "Well, I guess in a way we _are_ an item. Just in a not-having-sex sort of way. Eh, it's weird. I couldn't begin to put it into human words."

"I know," Stilinski replies.

"Well, I guess you are a pretty observant guy," Stiles says. He stands up and says, "I'm gonna head back to Scott's. See you after work, I guess."

"Okay," his father says. "See you later."

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski takes a few days to think about how he wants to tackle this. It obviously has to be done in private, which will be difficult given the way the pack always hangs out together. And now that he's thinking about it, Derek _has_ been avoiding him lately, or at least trying not to be alone with him.

So he thinks about it and has a word with Stiles and takes the opportunity on a nice spring evening. Stiles has picked up some hamburgers and Stilinski is out setting up the grill. Derek comes out of the house with the plate of meat, realizes he's now alone with Sheriff Stilinski, and obviously considers putting it down and fleeing.

"Thanks," Stilinski says, taking the tray from him. "Good timing. I wanted to talk to you."

"I, oh," Derek says, now actively looking for escape routes.

Sheriff Stilinski sets the tray down, since the coals aren't hot enough yet anyway, and turns to face him. "I owe you an apology," he says.

Derek looks at him warily. "You do?"

"Yes," Stilinski says. "I haven't been fair to you. Those jokes about you taking advantage of my son seem funny to me, because I _know_ you would never do that. But I didn't realize that you were taking them seriously. I never meant to imply that I thought you were that sort of person, and I apologize."

Relief, intense, profound relief washes across Derek's face. He's always so stoic and grim-faced that Stilinski doesn't think that many people would even recognize the expression. But it's there, and he sees it. "Oh," Derek says. "Yeah, I mean, it's not . . ."

"Don't try to say it wasn't a thing," Stilinski says. "It was. I was being a jerk without realizing it."

"Yeah," Derek says, rubbing his hand over the back of his head.

"I know that you and Stiles don't have a sexual relationship," Stilinski says, and Derek winces a little. "I just give you a hard time because, I guess, I'm starting to think of you as another son. And parents love to embarrass their children." Derek looks incredibly startled by this proclamation, so Stilinski continues onward, not wanting to push the issue of parental claim. "Stiles is known for making stupid decisions, but I trust you to look out for him and take care of him."

"Thanks," Derek says, some of the tension going out of his shoulders and spine.

Stilinski nods. "Want a beer?"

"I would love a beer," Derek says.

"I think we both deserve one," Stilinski says, and laughs. He fishes around in the cooler he's brought out onto the back porch and pulls out a bottle for each of them. "Stiles says that you two are more like partners than boyfriends. He says that's the closest he can come in people-terms to describe it."

"It works," Derek agrees.

"Okay then." Stilinski uses the edge of the barbecue to pop the top off his beer, then holds his hands over the coals to test them. "We cool, as Stiles would say?"

A little smile twitches at the corner of Derek's mouth. "Yeah," he says. "We're cool."


End file.
